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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24623911">A Strange Love</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/lucifersfavoritechild/pseuds/lucifersfavoritechild'>lucifersfavoritechild</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Meet The Stranges [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Marvel Cinematic Universe, Sherlock (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Happy Ending, Love Confessions, M/M, Oneshot, Post-Episode: s02e03 The Reichenbach Fall, background ironstrange, but it's part of a series now so shut up, temporary John/Mary, temporary Sherlock/Other, this doesn't strictly speaking NEED to be a crossover anymore</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-06-09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-06-09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-20 07:09:04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>5,221</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24623911</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/lucifersfavoritechild/pseuds/lucifersfavoritechild</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>After returning from Stephen and Tony's wedding, John and Sherlock's relationship is changed as they to deal with the fallout of Sherlock's false suicide and return.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Sherlock Holmes/John Watson</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Meet The Stranges [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1775887</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>115</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>A Strange Love</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>They did <em>not</em> talk about what happened at the wedding. As soon as they touched down in London, Lestrade had them on the phone. Then Moriarty happened, and the fall, and . . . that was that.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>The next two years were hell. Stephen and Tony’s honeymoon was unexpectedly cut short when they had to come for the funeral. Donna was there, trembling as she wept into a handkerchief, along with Henry Holmes, Mycroft, Peter and Harley, Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson . . . everyone but John.</p><p>He thought of going. Debated with himself for hours. But when the time came, he found he couldn’t even get out of bed. His phone buzzed and rang until he turned it off, dropping it on the floor. He didn’t pick it up.</p><p>He tried. To live, to move on. Mostly at the insistence of Mrs. Hudson. He visited his therapist for the first time in over eighteen months, went back to the surgery. He even moved out of 221B. He had to. Walking around the flat just reminded him of Sherlock, of the days he spent bent over a microscope, experimenting in the kitchen, lying on the couch and running around the living room at full-speed when he was bored. And his bedroom. John probably slept in there more than in his own room for a long time. Flipped through the books that lined the walls, straightened his blankets, looked through his clothes. Until he couldn’t anymore.</p><p>So, he left. He tried not to think about, tried to talk to people and get out of the tiny, depressing flat he moved into. He even called Mycroft and Donna a few times, mostly to ask what they wanted to do with his stuff. After hours of discussion, more tears from Sherlock’s mother, and cold, emotionless looks from Mycroft, they decided to leave it in 221B for the time being. Stephen sent money to Mrs. Hudson so she wouldn’t have to fill the flat anymore. So there it stood, a mausoleum for all the memories of the greatest man he ever knew.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>He spent a lot of time at Sherlock’s grave. It was a nice gravestone, at least. Donna picked it out. Part of John had wanted to be more involved in what happened after . . . well, <em>after</em>. But he was Sherlock’s friend. Not his family, his lover, his husband. Sherlock had not been his. And now he never would be.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>He needn’t have bothered as it turned out.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>“<em>YOU FUCKING ARSEHOLE</em>—”</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>So, Sherlock was Not Dead. Which was great. Perfectly, wonderfully, good.</p><p>Except . . .</p><p>Except it wasn’t okay. He’d been gone two years. For two years, John had thought his best friend was dead. For two years, he had nightmares about Sherlock throwing himself off a building, his skull cracking apart in front of him and an unending fountain of blood pouring out.</p><p>And of course, there was Mary. Who was lovely! So lovely, and wonderful, who’d tried so hard to help him when he was in a dark place . . . and who he’s asked to marry him.</p><p>So really, things were perfectly not lovely.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>“I’m happy for you,” Sherlock said once while they were kneeling over a bloodless body, when things were slightly less not-okay.</p><p>John looked up sharply at him. “What?”</p><p>“For you and Mary. She’s nice. And . . . clever.”</p><p>“Oh.” He looked at his friend for a moment before finally giving up on saying anything meaningful. “Good.”</p><p>And that was that.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Sherlock went to the wedding. Of course he did, he was John’s best man. He had to go, even if he didn’t want to, even if every step he took that day felt like he was walking to his death. He even managed to smile, played a song on his violin for the first dance, had too much champagne and thought he might vomit.</p><p>And at the end of it, when John and Mary were (<em><s>seemed</s></em>) happy and no one was watching him, he grabbed his coat, put the violin in its case, and walked back to 221B alone.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>“Who the fuck is at the door this late?” Tony groaned, throwing his arm over his face as Stephen got up and turned on a light.</p><p>“I don’t know, but security let them in.” Stephen found his dressing gown and put it on, tying the belt shut as he walked through the penthouse and opened the door, too tired to ask who it was. He stopped when he saw the face before him.</p><p>“Am I still invited for Christmas?” Sherlock asked.</p><p>Stephen stared at him for a long time. He’d known, logically, that his nephew was back, that he’d never really died, but seeing him in the flesh after so long believing . . .</p><p>Sherlock’s brows furrowed. “Are you going to—”</p><p>Stephen threw his arms around Sherlock and pulled him in for a hug.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>“Mrs. Hudson!” John called into the stairway. The flat was empty, although Sherlock’s stuff was still there, the bedroom neat and organized, the kitchen a hazard to itself and everyone in it. In fact, it seemed untouched from the last time he’d been there, the day before his wedding . . .</p><p>“John?” The older woman came down the stairs, giving him an odd, questioning look. “What are you doing here?”</p><p>John shifted awkwardly, feeling strangely unwelcome. “Sherlock wasn’t answering his phone. I came down to see if he wanted to spend Christmas with me and Mary . . .” Which sounded like a horrible idea when he said it out loud. <em>Obviously</em> the man he’d been in love with (<em>still</em> was in love with) would like to spend the holiday with himself and his wife, didn’t that sound just lovely?</p><p>But he couldn’t help trying. He missed his friend (<em>almost</em>). It felt like they hadn’t seen each other in ages. And he knew how Sherlock got when he isolated himself . . .</p><p>Mrs. Hudson shook her head. “I’m sorry dear, he left the other day. When I asked what he was doing, he said he was going to see family.”</p><p>“Oh.” <em>Obvious</em>, a voice in his head that sounded suspiciously like Sherlock said. <em>Stupid.</em> “Do you know when he’ll be back?” <em>Desperate.</em></p><p>Mrs. Hudson shook her head. Realizing he had no other option, he said his goodbyes and left, a weight resting in his stomach.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Sherlock stared at the open box in front of him, squinting.</p><p>“It’s a friendship bracelet,” Peter said, wearing his pajamas from the night before and a pair of felt reindeer antlers. “I made it so you’d have something to remember me in England. Or after I go to MIT. I don’t really know when you’re leaving, so whichever happens first, I guess.”</p><p>“I remember you perfectly well already. And I don’t normally wear jewelry.” Especially not ones made of plastic beads that spelled out his name.</p><p>“You don’t have to wear it . . .” Peter said, looking sad and awkward.</p><p>Sherlock took pity on him and put the bracelet on. “I’ll wear it. Now go play with your new electron microscope.”</p><p>Beaming, Peter did as he said, practically leaping over Harley on his way. The younger teen was spread out on the floor with his new paintball gun and a toolbox in front of him. Sherlock felt that was none of his business.</p><p>Donna suddenly jumped up on the back of the couch and swung her legs over, lending next to her son and holding a mug of unspilt eggnog in her hands. She smiled beatifically, raising the cup to take a sip. “You don’t know how good it is to have you back, Sherlock.”</p><p>He wasn’t sure he agreed. He’d thought he’d be able to slide right back into his old life, but nothing seemed the same. Even John . . .</p><p>He shot those thoughts in a box and hid them away in his mind palace where they couldn’t (<em>shouldn’t</em>) bother him. “I missed you when I was away.” <em>Away.</em> That was how everyone referred to the roughly two years that Sherlock had pretended to be dead while dismantling Moriarty’s web of crimes and connections. <em>Away.</em></p><p>Donna took another long sip before putting the mug on the coffee table and laying down, legs curled up beside her as she rested her head on Sherlock’s arm. When she spoke again, she wasn’t looking at him. “I divorced Henry. After you left. Took the house in Cornwall and about twenty million quid, give or take. Of course, I still don’t really know what a quid is.”</p><p>Sherlock made a thoughtful noise. “We’ll have to take a trip to the house.” Sherlock stared at the carefully-lit fireplace, remembering the lone building on the cliffs of his childhood. He wondered if his mother’s carefully tended butterfly hatcheries and beehive boxes were still there. He hoped so. It would be nice to see them again.</p><p>“I’m sorry,” he said, unbidden. It took him a moment to figure out why. “I kept you tied to him for so long. It was my fault.”</p><p>Donna shushed Sherlock before pulling on his arm, cajoling him to lay his head in her lap like he did as a child. He shut his eyes as his mother’s fingers played with his curls. “Don’t even think that, dearest. You were my <em>strength</em>, not weakness. I’d have done myself in a long time ago without you.”</p><p>Sherlock lay there a long time before he relaxed and curled a hand around his mother’s knee.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>He sat on the edge of the roof as he smoked, looking out over the city. New York was too loud. He preferred to be the noise people complained about, not the other way around. It was an attractive enough city, he supposed, if one preferred the more modern style to the age and charm of London. Which he didn’t.</p><p>He stared for a long time at the city lights before checking his phone again. John had left a voicemail earlier. Sherlock was certain it hadn’t been the first. In fact, it was probably closer to the tenth, although he couldn’t be sure. It was short and awkward, halting. He wished Sherlock a merry Christmas, as did Mary apparently. The message seemed to stop before he could ask why Sherlock had left without telling him, although both of them knew the question was there, hanging in the thousands of miles of air between them.</p><p>Sherlock looked at his phone, his thumb hovering over John’s name as he hesitated . . .</p><p>The elevator to the roof opened, and Sherlock immediately put his phone back in his pocket, hitting the power button as he did. He relaxed some when he saw who it was.</p><p>“Oh,” Karl Mordo said, hands loosely shoved in his pockets as he stepped out into crisp air. “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize anyone else was up here. We met at the wedding—”</p><p>“I remember.” Probably a good thing someone had come out. He shouldn’t be alone in his head this long. “Want to sit?”</p><p>He expected the other man to decline and go back downstairs to the relative social safety of Stephen complaining about his colleagues’ stupidity. Instead, he sat down beside him, surprising Sherlock when he crossed his legs rather than keep them safely on the concrete roof. He mentally readjusted his assessment of the man before taking another drag of his cigarette. “Leaving soon?”</p><p>“Yes,” Mordo said with a nod. “Much more peaceful at night, at least where I live.”</p><p>“You prefer the quiet,” Sherlock deduced.</p><p>“Yes.”</p><p>“Hm.” He turned to look out over the city again. “I’m the opposite. Too much noise in my head, if the world’s quiet I have nothing else to pay attention to.”</p><p>“Is that why you solve crimes?” Mordo asked, watching him with genuine curiosity (Sherlock could always tell the difference).</p><p>“That, and I get bored <em>far</em> too easily. It’s a curse in my family.”</p><p>“Yes, I’ve met Stephen. But you don’t seem bored now.”</p><p>Sherlock paused before tapping the end of his cigarette off. “That’s because I’m thinking too much right now.” Thinking about John and Mary, together in their little family flat in London, about his mother and the house in Cornwall and bees and butterflies, about his father and the hope that this meant they wouldn’t see each other, about falling and wondering if he would survive, about his family, about Christmas, about two or three or ten cases, he thought about dying and being dead and faking death and faking life, and John, John, <em>John</em>—</p><p>“Sounds tiring.”</p><p>Sherlock slammed his eyes shut. <em>Don’t think of John, he doesn’t want me anymore, probably never did. I need something new, something interesting</em>— “Oh, definitely.” He looked at his uncle’s friend over again, seeing the thin scar on his forehead and the lines of his hands, the way he carried himself. “Former military?”</p><p>“Classified.”</p><p>Of course. He’d figured that out before. <em>Tired. Don’t want to sleep, don’t want to think, just </em>do. “Will you go back to Nepal when you leave?”</p><p>Mordo didn’t ask if Sherlock knew that from Stephen or if he’d figured it out himself. Probably he already knew. “Yes. I’m not in a rush, though. I’m on sabbatical.”</p><p><em>Hm. </em>He couldn’t <em>quite</em> piece together what it was this man did, although he thought it had something to with teaching, possibly religious. <em>Buddhist? No, not quite. Already dismissed that. Tired, lonely, John</em>— “Have you ever been to London?” <em>No. </em></p><p>“No.”</p><p><em>Obvious.</em> “Have you ever worked on dangerous crimes?”</p><p>“I can’t tell you that.”</p><p>“Yes, then. Do you want to again?”</p><p>Mordo tilted his head as they shared a look. “Let me think about it.” Then he cupped Sherlock’s jaw and leaned in for a kiss.</p><p>Sherlock managed to utter a quiet, “Oh,” before shutting his eyes. It was a nice kiss. When Sherlock raised a hand to the other man’s chest, he was warm and solid beneath him, a pleasant contrast to the chilled air around them and the feeling of falling and not knowing if you would be caught. And somewhere along the line, he melted into the kiss and stopped thinking for what feels like the first time in over two years.</p><p>When they pulled apart, Mordo was smiling. Sherlock realized he was too. “You taste like ashes,” Mordo whispered. Then, louder, “I might see London.”</p><p>They were silent for another minute. Then Sherlock said, “We should probably get off the edge of the building.”</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>The next time John saw Sherlock, it was with Lestrade. The Inspector Detective had been having a hard time getting a hold of their friend, and once they checked with Mrs. Hudson that he’d returned from the states, they agreed to go over. Despite the fact that his limp had been acting up again, there was a spring in John’s step that hadn’t been there before. He was practically leaping up the stairs to 221B, only to freeze when they heard a loud <em>thud</em>.</p><p>“What was that?” Lestrade asked in the same moment that another one sounded, louder, this time accompanied by a shout.</p><p>John immediately started running, grabbing hold of the doorknob to their flat (<em>Sherlock’s flat</em>), twisting it, and slamming the door open.</p><p>Sherlock was there, purple shirt and bouncing curls and all, and John would be relieved if his friend wasn’t struggling to get out of a chokehold.</p><p>Panic flashed through John when he reached for a gun that wasn’t there anymore—</p><p>Before Sherlock tapped twice on the man’s arm, sucking in a breath as he was released.</p><p>The man shook his head, chuckling. “I told you you wouldn’t be able to get out of my chokehold.”</p><p>Sherlock scowled at the man as he gingerly rubbed his neck. “I was fine.”</p><p>“Of course you were.”</p><p>John looked between the two men, letting his hand fall to his side. Sherlock seemed . . . fine. A bit breathless perhaps, but more irritated than anything else. The other man, tall and dark-skinned and handsome, looked amused, maybe even fond. John thought he was vaguely familiar . . .</p><p>Lestrade, on the other hand, was staring at Sherlock with his usual <em>what the fuck did you get up to this time</em> look. “What the hell is going on?!”</p><p>Sherlock shrugged as though there were nothing unusual about the situation in the slightest. “Lestrade, this is my . . . temporary partner, Mordo. You remember him from the wedding, don’t you, John?”</p><p><em>Oh.</em> <em>That’s</em> where he was from. He remembered now, the tense dinner they’d attended with Tony and Stephen that night, the friend who’d come up to speak with them halfway through, the one who made Sherlock smile.</p><p>John felt his jaw tightened even as he reached out a hand and tried to smile. “Pleasure.”</p><p>Sherlock shared a look with him then, and John could <em>feel</em> the moment his friend’s stained-glass eyes grew cold, calculating. He turned to Mordo. “Will you give us a moment?”</p><p>This was bad. If <em>Sherlock</em> thought something was too sensitive to say in front of someone else, it couldn’t end well.</p><p>“Of course.” Then Mordo did something John never thought he would see. He leaned forward, gently touched Sherlock’s shoulder, and kissed his cheek.</p><p>Every cliche suddenly made sense. The record scratched. The earth stopped turning. The whole world ended while John just stood there and watched.</p><p>It seemed then that if there had ever been a chance for him and Sherlock, it was gone now. A moment later, and he felt bile rise in the back of his throat when he realized that Mary had never made him feel that way.</p><p>Lestrade looked between his friends awkwardly. “I’m just going to . . .” He walked out, shutting the door behind him.</p><p>Sherlock frowned for about two seconds before wiping his face of all emotion. “Are you alright?”</p><p>“Fine,” John said, with a smile that was definitely <em>not</em> fine. “Why wouldn’t it be? It’s good, you should . . . you should have someone you care about here.” He was angry, but not at his friend. Only at himself. Sherlock was not <em>his</em>, and that was his own fault as much as it was anything else. He did not get to be mad that someone else might have him. He didn’t get to be jealous that someone else might be able to make him happy the way he’d wanted to.</p><p>“Oh. Well . . . good.” Sherlock was missing something, he knew, but he didn’t know <em>what</em>, and he hated that.</p><p>John broke their stare, leaning on the back of a chair. “Lestrade and I just came by to tell you about a new serial killer case.”</p><p>Immediately his friend perked up, walking past him to welcome Lestrade back in before stopping. “Are you going to come?”</p><p><em>Yes</em>, John thought, desperately, achingly. “No, I’m supposed to be meeting a friend of Mary’s today.” <em>Liar.</em> “You have fun. I’ll text you later?”</p><p>There was something in Sherlock’s eyes that looked sad then, but you couldn’t tell when he spoke. “Yes. I will. Promise.” <em>Liar.</em></p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>John went back to Mary and the surgery and the nameless flat, and Sherlock returned to 221B and the streets of London with his new partner. Both of them tried to seem happy. Often they failed.</p><p>For Sherlock, the beginning of the end came when he whirled around, looking at a crime scene with bright new eyes as realization hit and everything slotted into place.</p><p>Mordo, standing on the edge of the room, looked at him curiously. “What?”</p><p>“I know where the killer is.” Sherlock grinned, and Mordo returned the gesture as the consulting detective pulled him toward the center of the room and into a quick, passionate kiss. Then he froze when Sherlock turned on his heel and ran towards the door. “Come on, John!”</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>John kept going to his therapist. He didn’t tell Mary, but she knew. Of course she knew.</p><p>One night they sat next to each other as they ate takeaway (Mary always ordered because sometimes John got mixed up and asked for Sherlock’s order instead of hers), she asked him, “Is it Sherlock? Is he the reason you still talk to your therapist?”</p><p>John stilled, eyes trained on the table. Finally, after clearing his throat and putting his plate down, he asked, “Why do you think that?”</p><p>Her answer was shroud, neither hurting nor hurtful. “Because he’s the only one that affects you like this.” A beat passed. “I know I don’t.”</p><p>John flinched, but didn’t answer. There was no point. They both knew the truth.</p><p>They finished dinner in silence.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Sherlock was curled on the couch, his back turned against the world as he squeezed his eyes shut. He was exhausted, but he didn’t want to sleep. His mind was racing at a thousand miles a minute, but there was nothing to <em>focus</em> on, nothing but his own head and life and everything he’d ever done and every mistake he’d ever made—</p><p>He groaned when a hand suddenly shook his shoulder, leaping on the single instance of distraction as he deduced the person standing above him from the shape of the hand and its strength—</p><p>Mordo. Not John. <em>Obvious. Stupid.</em></p><p>“Won’t you get up? It’s a lovely day, we could go to a park, walk around the city . . .”</p><p><em>Dull. Boring. Tired, so tired, but not ready to sleep. Never. </em>“No.”</p><p>He didn’t understand. He should have been happy. He was back in London, the Work had resumed, he was speaking to his mother more often, he was in a relationship, even the officers at Scotland Yard seemed to feel guilty for what had happened years ago now and were more willing to work with him, and none of it seemed to matter to the gnawing emptiness inside him.</p><p>He sat up suddenly, his hand dipping into the crease of the couch until he pulled out a gun, his arm bending around his partner’s body so he could shoot three bullets into the wall. Mordo jumped back, cursing. “Oh, you <em>fucking</em>—”</p><p>Sherlock buried himself back in the couch and shut the world out.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>John wasn’t terribly surprised when the divorce papers came. He was mostly shocked that it wasn’t entirely his fault. But then, he <em>was</em> the sort of person who would accidentally marry a former secret agent who was lying about everything in her life. Really, the blame was pretty much fifty-fifty.</p><p>“Are you going to be okay?” he asked when the papers were signed and the pens were down. He wasn’t sure why he bothered. But he needed to, needed to make one last effort.</p><p>Mary smiled sadly. “Are you?”</p><p>Neither of them had an answer.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Mordo was sitting cross-legged on a mat on the floor, struggling to concentrate as Sherlock paced the length of the room. He finally snapped when the hem of Sherlock’s dressing gown trailed along his knee, shouting, “Sit down!”</p><p>Sherlock shook his head, not looking at him. “I don’t want to sit. I need a <em>case</em>, I need something—”</p><p>“You <em>need</em> professional help!”</p><p>Sherlock laughed harshly. “You’re not the first to say it and you won’t be the last. Either way, they get just as frustrated with me.” He returned to his energetic pacing, not bothering to stop when Mordo spoke again.</p><p>“For once in your life, I wish you’d just <em>listen to someone else!</em>”</p><p>“I listen all the time,” Sherlock snapped back, still moving, always moving. “I listen and I see, to the way you look at me, when you think I talk too much, that I’m too coarse, too much, too different, too tiring. Why are you still here? You’re tired of me, I see it in your eyes and your jaw, the way you stand when you look at me, if you want to leave, just <em>leave!”</em></p><p>Sherlock breathed hard, surprised by the viciousness with which he shouted. Then—</p><p>“Fine.”</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>“I hope I didn’t ruin your friendship.”</p><p>Stephen and Sherlock sat on the couch in 221B as Tony and the boys set up a miniature chemistry set in the kitchen. He should probably warn Mrs. Hudson.</p><p>Stephen shook his head. “Oh, Mordo feels bad about how it ended, but don’t worry about me. You’re the one who’s hurting.”</p><p>Sherlock scrunched his face up. “I’m fine.” Wasn’t he supposed to be the emotionless one? The machine? He didn’t even believe his own words.</p><p>“Plenty of people are <em>fine</em>, Billy. I want you to be happy.”</p><p>Sherlock contemplated that before answering. “I don't normally try to be happy. It ends up disappointing. Exciting usually works. Distracted, definitely. But happy is just unrealistic.”</p><p>“Don’t go all maudlin on me,” Stephen said, rolling his eyes in a way that anyone else would have found rude. “You deserve to be happy, Sherlock. But you’re very good at self-sabotage. You push people away when they try to get close, then say you prefer it that way.” Stephen sighed, shutting his eyes before he spoke again. “You should call John. You were happy when he was around. I saw it.”</p><p>Sherlock wanted to deny it, to curl up in his room or bury himself in a case and refuse to acknowledge his uncle. Instead, he said, “John doesn’t want me.”</p><p>“Wrong.”</p><p>Sherlock started, staring at him. “<em>Wrong?</em>” Well, that upset him more than he wanted to admit.</p><p>“Oh, dearest. You see so much more than most people. But sometimes you can be a bit dense.”</p><p>As soon as finished speaking, an eruption sounded from the kitchen, immediately followed by cries of, “<em>Fuck!</em>” and “Cool!”</p><p>Stephen sighed before standing up. “Back into the fray.”</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>John was almost startled out of his chair when someone started pounding furiously at his door, shouting, “<em>JOHN, JOHN WATSON, HELP, IT’S AN EMERGENCY</em>—”</p><p>John ran to the door, wrenching it open and staring at the red-haired woman in front of him. “Donna?”</p><p>Sherlock’s mother walked past him into the flat, casually saying, “Oh good, you’re here. Mind if I sit down?” Before he could even think of an answer, she breezed into his tiny kitchen, taking out a kettle and filling it with water. “What kind of tea do you have?”</p><p>John stared at her, unsure if he was more shocked by her presence or her audacity. “Excuse me? What are you doing here?”</p><p>“What does it look like? I’m making tea.” She gestured at one of two lone chairs. “Go on, sit down.”</p><p>He did so, if only because his flat was tiny and would feel two crowded if they were both up and moving around. His eyes stayed trained on Sherlock’s mother, trying to see if she was any different from when they’d met around three years ago. Her curly hair was loose and shorter than he remembered, falling slightly past her shoulders rather than fully down her back. She was dressed casually in a pair of jeans and a plain orange short with a brown jacket on top, her already impressive height bolstered by heeled boots. And she just seemed . . . better. Healthier, maybe. More lively. Her freckles were prominent, large eyes wide and clear.</p><p>He waited as long as he could before asking, “How’s Sherlock?” He resisted the urge to wince when Donna turned her eyes on him. He didn’t know if she was aware that he’d barely been in contact with Sherlock for several months now, didn’t know how he was doing or if he was happy or even <em>safe</em>.</p><p>Donna didn’t seem to pass judgment, instead taking out a couple of plain white cups as she steeped the tea. “Better now, although that’s not saying much. He’s staying with me in Cornwall for a while. He’s always loved it there. You will too once I convince you to get in the car.”</p><p>John sighed, setting his face in his hands. When had he become so tired all the time? Probably when he watched Sherlock fall . . . “I can’t do that.”</p><p>“Nonsense, you just walk down and step right in, dear, if it’s any trouble I can help you.”</p><p>“No, I mean, I can’t . . . see Sherlock. He doesn’t want to see me?”</p><p>“Well, do you want to see him?”</p><p>“I . . . I don’t know! Maybe!” Part of him wanted to scream, <em>Yes, yes, a thousand times yes.</em> But—</p><p>“Then it’s settled, we’ll leave as soon as we’re done drinking.”</p><p>“Listen,” he said, accepting a cuppa when she handed it to him, “thank you for my tea, from my kitchen, but there’s no way I’m just going to jump and run to Sherlock on your say-so!”</p><p>“He’s single.”</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>The garden of Sherlock Holmes’s childhood home-away-from-home was half flowers and half butterfly hatcheries and beehive boxes. It was his favorite part of the house as a child, and it was still his favorite now. When he was there, he could spend hours tending to the rose bushes and the bees. He could lose himself in the work and pretend that the rest of the world didn’t exist, that it was just him and Mummy. A place all their own where nothing could touch them.</p><p>He didn’t bother to look behind him when he heard someone walk up, asking, “Mummy, did you bring the fruit for the butterflies? They’re looking a bit peaky this season . . .” When he finally turned around, words failed him.</p><p>John leaned on his cane. “Hello, Sherlock.”</p><p>Sherlock stared another moment before finding his voice. “John.” He wished he had his jacket and coat, felling irrationally exposed. But there was no point in wishing. “Did Mummy bring you?”</p><p>“Yeah. She, uh, she thought I might want to see you.”</p><p><em>Was she right?</em> Sherlock looked around the garden, at the butterflies that had already left their cocoons and the bees collecting pollen. He couldn’t bring himself to ask John anything. “When I was a child, my mother and I would find butterflies with torn or broken wings and repair them.”</p><p>“How do you do that?”</p><p>“With the wings of dead ones.”</p><p>John chuckled. “Bit morbid.”</p><p>Sherlock made a thoughtful noise. “Probably why I liked it.”</p><p>They stood in surprisingly comfortable silence for a few minutes, John watching as Sherlock tended to the hatcheries. It was only when he’d finished that John spoke.</p><p>“I missed you.”</p><p>Sherlock froze, staring at his friend as John, practically shaking, talked.</p><p>“Not just after . . . after Moriarty. Every day we weren’t together, I thought of you and I missed you. I thought it would stop, but it didn’t. So . . . now you know.”</p><p>“Oh,” Sherlock said, for once missing the constant rush of his head as he struggled to find what to say. “I missed you too. When you weren’t there, I just felt . . . different.”</p><p>“Different?”</p><p>“Worse.”</p><p>“Oh.”</p><p>They stared at each other for another minute (<em>too long, far too long</em>). Then Sherlock sat down in the soft grass, letting the sunlight fall on his face. A moment later, John joined him.</p><p>Sherlock didn’t dare look at his friend when he said the next part. “I think I love you.”</p><p>“Really?”</p><p>“Almost certainly.”</p><p>“Well . . . that’s good, because I love you too.”</p><p>Sherlock blinked. “Huh.” He hadn’t expected that.</p><p>They stayed like that for a while, watching the flowers and the bees, until they moved at the same time, leaning into each other as they kissed. The world melted away, and it was only them, warm and happy and quiet. Sherlock's fingers curled around the nape of John's neck at the same time that John's hand settled on Sherlock's chest, so intimate that neither could tell where the other began. It seemed obvious now. Perfectly, simply, beautifully, obviously right.</p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Yeah, this was kind of a new one for me</p><p>Some people might wonder why I decided on Sherlock/Mordo as a relationship for this. And the answer is that I got the idea in my head and it wouldn't leave until I wrote it. Sorry if you didn't care for that, but I'm fairly happy with this fic, and I hope if you read it through, you still enjoyed it</p><p>As for the future of this series, I have a couple of ideas, but nothing as major as the first two, and I'll probably choose to work on other things for now. Still, I've enjoyed writing this so much, and keep an eye out for future installments!</p></blockquote></div></div>
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